Pipes
by WinterWhirls
Summary: Olivia has a nasty problem. E/O.
1. Chapter 1

Fair warning, I wrote this because I was bored.

* * *

><p>"Fucking hell!" Olivia shrieks as she bounds back from the cupboard under the sink with an adrenaline fuelled crash of limbs. The wrench slips from her hands as a slimy brown paste spews from the crack in the pipe beneath the sink.<p>

She sits, shocked, as the dirty mixture of everything from old sink water to residues of things she had poured down the drain months ago drip from her face and onto the kitchen tiles. "Oh, that's fucking disgusting," she growls under her breath, standing and dabbing at her face with a wet cloth. Frustrated, she kicks the cupboard door as hard as she can, and the painted board of wood smacks loudly against the frame before bouncing back on its hinges and hitting her in the shin.

She picks up her phone and presses speed dial.

"Stabler."

"Can you come over?" she says, hanging her head heavily in her hands.

"What?" he asks, confused. "Why?"

"Something horrible happened."

"What did you do?" he sighs, and she can hear running water in the background. He's probably dealing with clean, clear water right now, the polar opposite of the slick, dark brown splatters in front of her.

"I didn't do anything," she snaps. "It's my fucking twenty year old kitchen sink. The pipes burst." She sighs as she observes the gunky mess that is her kitchen floor. "It just regurgitated everything that's been in it for the past three months."

"Sounds disgusting," he replies, and just from his voice she can tell he's got his jackass grin on his face.

"Please, El," she gripes, sighing heavily into the phone. "This happened to you before. You fixed it once, you can fix it again."

"Yeah. And last time I tried, I flushed down my son's turtle. He was traumatized for a week. I'm not attempting Mr. Fix It again. I'm watching the game tonight."

"Fine. Whatever. I'll fix it myself, then. Thanks so much for your help." And she slams that phone shut, hoping he will feel guilty and show up at her door.

* * *

><p>Forty minutes later, she's on her hands and knees with a bucket of bleach and an old rag before her. The pipe is covered in a thick layer of duck tape; her clumsy wrap job clogs the leak with an excessive amount of silver tape. She's done five layers, just to be sure.<p>

She's finished moping up most of the putrid substance from her floor, and as her anger at the sink ebbs off, her anger at her partner's lack of support begins to simmer. Fuck him, anyway. She can do it; the proof is right in front of her. There's no way that sink is leaking again, not with the way she's donated a whole roll of duck tape to it's reconstruction. So yeah. Fuck him.

She's sweating by the time she dumps the bleach into the bathtub and throws the rag into the laundry room, and she's still dirty from when the damn sink exploded on her. So she strips her clothing and rolls it all in a ball, tossing it into the washing machine, and steps under the hot, inviting spray of the shower.

She wonders who'll be laughing next time Elliot needs her help with something.

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night, she is woken by a loud hissing sound, like that of a dangerously angry cat. Or like a pop bottle that's been shaken into oblivion and then had the cap slowly unscrewed.<p>

"The hell?" she mumbles under her breath, sitting up. When she realizes the noise is coming from the kitchen, she curses and bolts upright, tossing back the covers and pounding down the hall in her tank top and panties.

What she sees in the kitchen makes her cry.

The sink is totally, epically backed up, but instead of from the pipe, this time it's from the actual opening in the drain of the sink. The same mouldy, greasy slime as before is splattered across the counter, small splotches staining the steel of her fridge, and the ceiling above her sink is creamed with the thick substance, the occasional splotch of goo becoming too heavy to resist gravity and splatters back to the sink. The force of the explosion had been strong enough the send the splatter on an upward projectile, splattering across her ceiling.

She inhales shakily, her hands trembling. Instinctively, she reaches for her phone, and dials his number.

"We get called in?" he grumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

"N-no."

"What's wrong?" he asks, immediately picking up on her distress.

"My…my sink," she whispers, staring at the mess that is her apartment in utter shock.

"You haven't fixed that?" He asks, and she can tell he's slightly exasperated that she woke him up.

"I thought I did…please El, you have to come."

"Call your landlord, Liv. He'll know what to do. It'll be okay."

"He's on vacation." A small sound of frustration at the utter disaster in her kitchen escapes her throat. "Please come over. There's no one else to call. I'll never ask for anything again, I promise."

On the other end of the line, there is silence. It takes him a few long moments to speak. "You do realise that it's my week with Eli, don't you?"

"I'm sorry, I just –,"

"I'll be there in an hour. And you'd better not do anything stupid before I get there because I have every right to kill you while you're perfectly healthy."

* * *

><p>In his apartment in Queens, Elliot snaps his phone shut and slips out of bed, yanking on his jeans and faded Yankees t-shirt. He cringes, the thought of what kind of hell his partner has created in her apartment flashing before his eyes. She'd sounded honestly distressed, which is the only reason he's going. He knows he'll never be able to deny her help, but he's just bitter about it because it's his week with his baby and he cannot, under any circumstances, fuck it up. Kathy would rip him a new one, and so would her lawyer, if they ever found out about a nightly escapade across the city.<p>

He approaches the crib that sits close to the window in his bedroom, and watches his son sleep in a heavy, furrowed-brow baby sleep before leaning over and slipping his warm hands under the child's armpits.

Eli stirs, his face scrunching and his head twisting until his eyes open, and he makes short staccato grunting noises until he is fully roused. When Elliot settles him against his shoulder, the baby, unhappy to be interrupted from sleep, begins to whimper until he keens out a full-blown wail into his father's ear.

"Shhhh," Elliot soothes, hugging the baby close for a moment before depositing him on his back on the bed. "It's okay," he hushes. "I'm pissed at her, too."

He reaches inside the suitcase Kathy had packed, and pulls out a fresh diaper, a onesie, and soft looking, comfortable jumper for his son to wear.

Changing the angry baby is a nightmare, for Eli twists and kicks under Elliot's palm on his stomach, and the child's face is nearly purple with the force of his wailing. Eli is still too young for real tears, but his eyes water sadly when he isn't allowed back in his father's arms.

Finally, after a few moments of wrestling with Eli's frog legs to keep them still as he tries to slip on the jumper, Elliot manages to fasten the last button and gently picks up the baby. Immediately, Eli's piercing baby cries die down, and his thumb finds its home in his mouth.

Eli rests on Elliot's left arm, and with his free hand, Elliot walk around his small flat gathering everything he needs to bring his son along. The carrier, the wool slippers, the coat, the mittens, the fluffy hat. After gathering everything and dressing Eli for the cold fall weather, he lays the baby in the carrier and folds two warm baby blankets over his tiny body.

"Sleep, Eli," Elliot murmurs, yanking on his jacket and shoving his feet into his boots. "Liv can sleep on the couch, you're getting her bed tonight."

* * *

><p>An hour and seven minutes later, there is a knock on her door. She jumps up from the couch and quickly turns the knob. "Elliot. Thank you so much -,"<p>

"Yeah," he murmurs, gesturing to Eli in his carrier, whose big, blue eyes are closed, his tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically under the blankets.

"He's sleeping," she smiles, happy that her disturbance didn't cause too much trouble with the baby.

"Of course he's sleeping. What time is it again?" He says, his tone sarcastic.

She sighs. "Elliot, look." She points to her kitchen.

His eyes widen. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"Exactly."

Elliot sighs heavily, and rubs his face with his hands. "Okay. Okay, go put Eli in the bedroom." He hands her the carrier, and her gaze softens as she glances down at the perfect, tiny replica of the man before her. She turns down the hallways and deposits the sleeping infant in his carrier on the centre of her bed.

"Night, Eli," she whispers, stroking her finger down his soft cheek.

At lease the baby can sleep peacefully. She knows that the hours ahead of her will be anything but pleasant.

* * *

><p>There's more if you'd like it. Let me know :)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

"Could you stop micro managing?" Olivia gripes, slamming the dripping wet dishrag onto the counter beneath her feet. Elliot's hands are around her knees to help her keep her balance as she stands on the countertop, and she pushes his hands away. With an angry jerk of her muscles, she bends down from her standing position next to the sink, and hops to the tiled ground with an indignant exhale. "If I'm so bad at it, by all means, you go ahead."

"That was never going to work," Elliot says. "If you stand on the counter to wash the ceiling, then of course the shit is going to drip onto you." He pushes past her and picks up the dishrag, soaking with water and lathered in soap. "This thing is useless. And it's disgusting. Do you have a mop?"

She takes the dishrag and tosses it in the trashcan next to her. "Yeah. Hang on, I'll get it."

Olivia rushes to the hall closet, where her cleaning supplies are stashed away, hibernating until she amasses the courage to wake them up and put them to use. The mop in question is hidden in the deep recess if the enclosed space, and Olivia tiptoes over various buckets, rolled up carpets, an old empty litter box, and the vacuum cleaner. Her hand encircles the arm of the mop, and she tugs it out, mindful of other object that could clatter to the floor with the potential of waking the baby.

"Is this good?" she asks hopefully, holding the tall mop out for Elliot's scrutinizing gaze.

"Yeah, it's good. Here, lemme have it," he says, raising his eyes to the muck coated ceiling above them. "This should work." Once the mop is in his hand, he turns it upside down, like a little girl and her make believe handsome prince. The mop hangs limply from the wooden rod supporting it.

"What are you doing?" Olivia asks, pulling up the sleeves of her shirt. Her hair is falling into her face again, and she reaches up to tighten her messy ponytail.

Elliot dunks the mop into the bucket of water from the tub, and once it's thoroughly soaked, he lifts it and, standing clear of the water and mud dripping onto the counter, begins to vigorously scrub the ceiling, his muscles bulging with exertion. "Better, no?" he glances at her with a grin, referring to her previous idea of balancing on the counter to scrub the ceiling with the dishrag.

She nods, because after all, it's the middle of the night and he's at her apartment helping her out. He could leave at any moment if he wanted to, and she's not going to risk arguing with him and pissing him off.

"I could do it," she offers, stepping forward.

"You can't reach," he smirks, turning back to the task at hand, small beads of perspiration dewing on his forehead and upper lip. "Is the bedroom door closed?" he asks, glancing back toward the room where Eli sleeps.

"No, I thought it'd be better to leave it open, like that we can hear him," she answers.

"There's no way we wouldn't hear that child, the way he screams. I just don't want to wake him." Elliot continues forcefully creating friction between the mop and the now considerably cleaner ceiling, the rhythmic scraping noises echoing through the otherwise quiet apartment. She pads back down the hall to swing the door of the bedroom closed, just so that is rests against the frame, and so that the baby can sleep peacefully.

Back in the kitchen, Olivia busies herself by taking a generous amount of paper towel, dunking it into the bucket to wet it, and proceeds to wipe down the silver fridge. "I thought I'd fixed it and then it backed up again," she explains, scrubbing the silver of the fridge, the pasty gunk leaving a sticky trail in its wake.

"I'll take a look down there once I finish this," Elliot assures her, slightly out of breath from moping down the ceiling.

"Okay." Olivia settles down onto her knees.

* * *

><p>"What the…" His voice is muffled from beneath the sink as he lies on his back with his head and shoulders submerged in the cupboard under the sink. She stands at his feet, watching as his hands reach up to fiddle with something she can't see.<p>

"What?" She asks wearily, crouching down and bowing her head, desperate to see what he's doing.

"Did you tape this?" He asks, his eyebrows rising on his face.

"Well, I mean, I didn't know how to do anything else," She says defensively, her voice rising along with his eyebrows.

"Relax," he eases. "C'mere." Elliot shifts over under the sink until there is a minimal amount of space left to his right, a nook just barely big enough for her to slide herself in on her side. With her neck turned at an awkward angle, her cheek flush against his shoulder, she observes where he's indicating. His scent surrounds her.

"See here?" he points, showing her a spot just above her wrap job on the black metal pipe running above their heads. "I'm betting there was a crack of some sort. Taping it is dangerous because you might've compressed the pipe too much, and made the, uh, circumference of it too small for all that shit to go back down." Elliot begins picking at the edge of her tape masterpiece, peeling the outer edges back by a millimetre with his nails.

"So we're gonna take the tape off?" she clarifies, lifting her hand to pick at the tough duck tape too.

"Well I honestly don't know what you did," he grins, his mood considerably better, "but this tape isn't coming off easily. I don't want to force too much movement on that pipe right now," he explains, shifting so that his entire body is flush against hers. Her eyes dart down momentarily to where their stomachs are sandwiched at the opening of the cupboard. Suppressing all thought concerning their proximity, she tries to focus back on what he's saying. Her cheeks are probably red but she hopes he either doesn't notice, or blames it on the exertion of cleaning the kitchen.

"So, uh, what are we going to do then?" she asks, trying not to breathe, for every inhale presses them closer together.

"I'm just gonna -," he grunts and begins contorting himself in order to get out of the cupboard. He slides against her until he is sufficiently far enough out that he can get onto his knees and rises out from under the counter. "I'm gonna get a plunger."

"There's one in the bathroom," she tells him, beginning to slip herself out from under the now all too heated cupboard.

* * *

><p>"I thought you said you didn't want to force it!" Olivia cries, as Elliot shoves the plunger down into the pipe from the opening in the sink again. "El, you're going to break it!"<p>

"No," he says, teeth gritted against the force of his movements. "It's almost all back down." He continues with the up and down vigorous movements, the muscles in his arms bulging from the sleeves of his t-shirt.

"No, seriously, I think you should -," Olivia is sharply interrupted by the piercing screech of an unhappy, unrested baby.

"Shit," Elliot sighs, his hands dirty and the plunger in his slippery grip.

"It's okay, I got it," Olivia assures, placing a palm on his back as she walks down the hall into the darkened bedroom, where Eli kicks his feet and arms in random, irritated motions. His tiny face is scrunched up and red, void of tears but bathed in dissatisfaction.

"Sweetie," Olivia croons, slipping into the bedroom and approaching the bundle of noise. "Shhhh, baby, it's okay," she whispers soothingly. She peels back the bunched up blankie covering him and slides her hands under him, lifting the tiny person up to her. Eli arches his back, his legs making swimming motions, his crying not letting up.

"Why're you crying, huh?" Olivia whispers. "What's wrong?" Eli's cries quiet at the sound of her gentle voice, his squalling tuning into shaky inhales as he stops fighting her embrace, settling against her chest and the crook of her neck as his need for attention is satisfied.

"Liv!" Elliot calls to her from the kitchen, alarm in his voice. "I, uh…"

Patting Eli softly on the back, Olivia pads back into the kitchen. "What?" she asks, looking down at the baby.

"It's uh…Your plunger broke."

"What!" she gasps, striding over to where he stands, one hand behind his back guiltily, the other holding a wooden rod with now nothing on the end except the imprint from where the rubber end used to be.

"Where is it?" She asks, shifting Eli to her other side as she sidles up beside Elliot to peer at the drain. "It's in _there_?" She whispers, her eyes wide.

"Uh, look Liv, it's fine. It's fixable. I'll, uh, I can fix it."

Eli makes a cooing noise as he lifts his head from Olivia's neck to look at his father with wide, curious eyes. "Eh," Eli says, leaning over in Olivia's embrace, trying to reach his father.

"I told you not to push it in, Elliot," Olivia frowns as she hands Eli over to her partner. She sighs, running a hand through her messy hair, falling back against the counter. "You can't fix that. This whole thing's a fucking disaster."

"Don't swear," Elliot says, his eyes on his son as Eli tries to climb his father's body, his tiny palm slapping against Elliot's shoulder.

Olivia stares at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Here," Elliot says, passing the now all too energetic baby to Olivia. Eli fusses at his father's rejection for a moment, before becoming much more enthralled by a stray lock of Olivia's hair that has escaped from her ponytail. His chubby fingers do the starfish, trying to grasp it.

"Just let me try," Elliot grinds out as he tries to get his hand far enough into the drain to extricate the rubber end of the plunger. His hand is too big and not dexterous enough to get a firm enough grasp on the rubber to get it out, though. "Liv…I'm, uh, I'm sorry."

"Forget it," Olivia sighs, throat tight. "This place is a mess and it's clear," she says, "that I need a new sink. I can't expect that piece of trash to last much longer even if you did fix it," she comforts. "You came to help in the middle of the god damned night, and that's more than I should have asked for." She observes the state of her kitchen, of her whole apartment, unusable without running water. "I just…I don't know what to do about it."

Elliot takes his hand out and wipes it on a towel. "You landlord's on vacation?"

"Yeah. Went to the Pyrenees for a month." Olivia bounces Eli on her hip, bending her head as the infant successfully grips her hair in his tiny, albeit determined, fist.

"We're not plumbers. There's only so much we can do at three in the morning on no sleep, Liv." As if to punctuate his father's point, Eli leans back and opens his mouth in an enormous yawn.

Elliot loosens Eli's grip on Olivia's hair, and then takes the baby back into his arms. "All three of us need to sleep," he reiterates, depositing Eli in the carrier. "Come over to my place. Get some sleep. We can figure it out from there, okay?"

Olivia yawns, her eyes feeling like sandpaper. "Okay."


	3. Chapter 3

Ten minutes later she's dressed in an old pair of jeans and the comfortable cotton of her academy t-shirt. At any other time, she'd probably try harder to look presentable, but it's well past three in the morning and she's almost too tired to even send messages from her brain to her feet in order to keep moving.

She drags herself into the living room with a backpack hanging from her hand, the bag stuffed with an unfolded change of clothes and her bathroom necessities. Out in the open air of her apartment, she recoils as a pungent odour curls in her nostrils.

"It smells bad," she groans, turning to Elliot who is strapping Eli into his carrier. The once grumpily tired baby seems to have hit his second wind; his blue eyes wide open along with his mouth, emitting loud noises of awareness. His small limbs wave and kick, making the task of slipping them through the appropriate straps of the car seat much harder than it should be.

"Yeah," Elliot answers, tucking a blanket around his son, "I think…" He turns his nose toward her kitchen, and sniffs the air. "Is that…alfredo? Have you made alfredo in the past six weeks, Liv?" He teases.

She glares at him. "Shut up. It's not your kitchen that's in danger of extinction."

"It's more my wallet I'd be worried about," he quips, lifting up his gurgling baby and grabbing his coat that rests by the door. He unhooked hers and tosses it across the few feet between them. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>Olivia stands behind him when they reach the door to his apartment, channelling her nervousness into watching the baby, now asleep, in the carrier that Elliot has placed on the ground.<p>

She's never been to his apartment. In fact, she wasn't even aware of its existence until about three months after he'd moved in, when Dickie had been visiting at work and broached the topic, asking his father why he didn't get a bigger place so his college friends could party.

Elliot's face had paled simultaneously with hers, and she looked up at him with a blanched expression. The look on his face was one of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, his pen stilling on his report and his son's sarcastic question completely forgotten.

He'd fumbled around with a few half-words for a minute, before she'd pretended to take pity and put him out of his misery by shrugging and telling him it was okay, once again saving his conscience by refusing to show him how much he'd hurt her feelings.

And even when Elliot was still living with Kathy, it wasn't as if she came over like regular family friends did on holidays and weekends. Contrarily to what she assumed was Kathy Stabler's long list of soccer-mom acquaintances, Olivia rarely set foot inside the Stabler household.

Elliot had asked her on numerous occasions if she wanted to join him and his family for a celebratory dinner, and nine out of ten times Olivia had declined. It didn't take a rocket scientist to decipher the fact that past Kathy's hostess-required greetings and smiles, Olivia was really an unwanted guest by the woman who claimed that it was so good to see her.

So, capable of counting on one hand the number of times she's set foot in a Stabler residence, Olivia holds her breath as Elliot selects a key from his key ring and inserts it in the lock on the bare metal door.

He swings the heavy board open, and the hinges creak a little. She feels a bit of regret at the fact that she had such bitter feelings toward him when she found out he'd neglected to tell her of his new address, because one look at the sight inside and she knows right away why he didn't invite her for a tour of his single-life home.

The furniture he's arranged and the draperies over the window and the new flooring she knows he's recently paid for are quite nice, she acknowledges, but the apartment itself is probably not one of the nicest she's ever seen.

She'll never tell him that, of course, because she knows exactly why he's gone for a low quality home. Over half his money is invested in his children, in keeping the house they grew up in as nice as it ever was. Basically, she realizes, he's running and paying for two houses simultaneously. And that more than anything makes her proud of him. Makes her respect for him shoot that much higher on her barometer. Her partner is a very good father, and extremely loyal, she realizes.

"It sucks, I know." Elliot moves further into the single-room, and deposits Eli on the bed.

And then her breath catches in her throat. The bed. There is only one in this room, and as far as she can see, there's no other room in the apartment. He's living in a single room apartment with a built-in kitchen and dining room.

And there is only one bed.

Silence reigns as she takes in the rest of his new home, the open door at the far side of the four-walled apartment revealing a bathroom.

She clears her throat, trying to push past the overwhelming fact that he's going to make her share a bed. "It doesn't suck," she contradicts, "It's perfect for you." And really, she thinks, it is. He's single and is rarely at home anyway, his demanding job stealing him away from the confines of his apartment more often than not. And his other kids are at college, living in student residences, and he'd complained to her once about how he never sees them anymore.

"Haha." He shoots her a sarcastic glance.

"No, really," she insists. Her eyes sweep the room again. "You got a couch?" She asks, trying to be casual about inquiring about their sleeping arrangements.

"No," he answers, picking up Eli and gently laying him down in his crib. His face softens as he watches his son sleep. "Why?" and then he turns to face her after a moment of silence, eyeing her strangely as she gulps loud enough for him to hear.

"Oh. Nothing."

* * *

><p><em>You idiot<em>, Elliot closes his eyes and leans his elbows on the counter. _You class A moron_. The whole time he'd been preparing himself to go back to bed, his partner had stood there awkwardly and stone silent, as if coming into his home had been the most embarrassing and unappealing thing she'd ever done.

And he's well aware that his apartment is a wooden piece of shit. It's not like he imagined fountains and big glass windows overlooking the city when Kathy kicked him out. He knew right from the get-go that his kids home would come first, and only then would he turn his attention to his own living conditions.

And yes, he had prepared himself for having to pay for a cheap apartment, with a low monthly rental fee and small heat and electricity costs. He's high in the ranks at the NYPD, but there isn't a cop out there who makes as much money as they deserve for the shit they see each day.

He hadn't told her about his new place for exactly this reason. He knew that even if she tried not to, she'd judge. He knew that she for one lived in a nice, upper-class apartment in downtown Manhattan with finished walls and floors and a sparkling bathroom. Aside from her old kitchen pipes, her apartment was one of the nicest he'd ever seen. And here he is, divorced and poor and basically a failure, inviting her to stay in his dump.

In retrospect, he should have known she'd react in a similar fashion to the one she'd showed. He should have known that she wouldn't say anything, hell – that she'd try to hide it, but that her disapproval would ooze from her like honey.

His anger, although he tries to tame it, flourishes inside of him.

"You just going to stand there?" He gestures, for she hasn't even taken off her coat.

She shakes her head and begins to unbutton the jacket, slipping it from her shoulders and hanging it on the back of the chair in front of her.

"Why didn't you tell me, El?" She asks, plopping down into the same chair her coat hangs on and rubbing her eyes. "I could've just gotten a hotel or something, we wouldn't have to -,"

He stares, disbelieving. "Fuck you," he growls, slamming the dishtowel he's holding against the counter and pacing into the bathroom, the door banging behind himself.

* * *

><p>She has never been so confused in her life. Olivia sits at the table in the centre of the room, unable to comprehend her partner's reaction to her words. She thought she was being gentle, polite in offering a solution to the obvious bed problem.<p>

But he'd reacted in an inexplicable way, swearing at her and then storming into the bathroom. The water still runs in there now, and she thinks back to the way the whole ordeal started. Her landlord is going to receive a strongly worded letter from her when he returns from wherever the hell he is.

Unable to understand his reaction, she walks over to the bathroom door. "Elliot?"

There is no answer, and she thinks that maybe he can't hear her over the tap. She knocks gently so that she doesn't wake up Eli. "Elliot?"

The door opens a crack, and she can see his narrowed face staring back at her. "What."

"This is ridiculous," she chastises, her hand on her hip. "What's your problem?"

He laughs, but there is no humour in his voice. "My problem?" He opens the door further. "My problem? I'm great." He nods at her. "Looks like you're the one with the issue."

She narrows her eyes, teeth gritting together. "What the hell?"

"If it's so horrible for you to have to come here, than you're more than welcome to leave at any time," he elaborates, gesturing towards the door.

"What are you talking about?" she hisses, trying not to yell for the sake of the child in the crib across the room from her.

"I know, okay?" he steps out of the bathroom, swinging his arm out indicating his apartment. "I know it's not as _nice _as yours, and that it's not the most appealing."

"Elliot -,"

"But I do what I can," he bites off, his eyes boring into her. "And if that's not good enough for you, then there's really nothing I can help you with."

"Elliot, shut up!" Her voice bounces off the walls of the apartment, and they both freeze, waiting in trepidation to see if it has woken Eli. Fortunately, his eyes remain closed. Lowering her voice, Olivia continues. "I don't give a damn about the state of your house," she begins. "I never even said _anything _about it. Now I don't know where you're getting this whole -,"

He barks a laugh, shaking his head. "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep."

"Elliot -,"

"Why don't you 'just go get a hotel', Olivia." He throws off his shirt and flings back the covers, settling on the far side of the mattress with his back to her.

She just stares, understanding dawning on her. He is greatly offended, that much she can tell. And he thinks it's because she said his apartment was too much of a dump for her to stay.

Oh, Jesus. His thinking couldn't be more incongruent with hers. It isn't his apartment that's got her wanting to run, it's the fact that if she stays she'll have to try and find sleep while pushed against him, under the covers, in nothing but the tank top and panties she unknowingly brought as pyjamas.

The waves of hurt visibly radiate from his body. She bites her lip, wanting badly to be able to comfort him, to reassure him that it's not about his apartment.

"Elliot," she whispers, into the single-roomed apartment. She advances, and sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. "Elliot… I don't want to get a hotel."

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait!

* * *

><p>She's not sure if it's the fluorescent lighting in Elliot's small, square bathroom that's causing her to look sickly, or if the reflection staring back at her is truly threatening to lose what little dinner is still in her stomach.<p>

She's pale, she can see that for certain, and there are dark crescents under her eyes that could either be chalked up to a very late night, or the fact that her heartbeat is so haywire that she'd be surprised if any blood is actually making it to her extremities. Her fingertips are numb and she feels slightly light-headed.

With Elliot stubbornly refusing to grant her the chance to explain herself and hell bent on ignoring her, she's turned her back on his frustratingly infantile behaviour and retreated to the privacy of the bathroom, her only means of escape in his four-walled apartment. Her propensity to run is not nullified by broken kitchen sinks are beautiful blue-eyes babies. At the core, she'll always be one to pack up and flee from the problem.

At least within the confines of the thin walls she has enough privacy to panic, hyperventilate, or, god forbid, bash her face into the hard porcelain of the counter until she passes out and no longer has to worry about her situation.

Her situation. Her situation, where she finds herself clutching two small bits of material, one a light blue tank top from when she was just a rookie – young and fit and overly athletic, the other a pair of black boy-cut panties that cling to her ass as if she's got someone she's trying to impress.

Sighing loudly and frowning hatefully at the woman staring back at her equally as unhappily, Olivia slouches in defeat, her forehead finding relief in the cradle of her palms, her elbows planted on the surface of the counter. She threads her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit, and leans over the sink. If she could fall down the drain right now, really, that would be so nice, she decides.

Minutes later, her worry warps into some misplaced form of embarrassment as she pictures Elliot, lying in the bedroom, listening to his sink in the bathroom run for what is now going on twenty minutes. It is quite plainly ridiculous, how much time she has been standing here, biting her nails and pulling at her clothes, and, as she well knows, nothing is going to change. The night is well on its way to morning, and her qualms at the inappropriateness of her outfit are quickly loosing the insurmountable battle with her grainy eyelids.

Like sandpaper and weighing more than a freight train, Olivia's eyelids slip shut, even as she roots vigorously to keep them open. It's a fruitless effort, and shortly after, her arms give way and her chin, previously resting on the palms of her hands, slams rudely against the white countertop.

"Fuck," she mutters, exasperated, and stands, pressing her fists into her eyes. "Christ, get a grip," she curses under her breath, throwing on the barely-there pyjamas that are wrinkled in her hand. Shoulders as squared as she can manage given her state of sleep-walking and her misgivings about sharing a bed with her partner, she inhales bravely before turning off the tap, flipping off the bright lights, and turning the loose handle on the door.

Her tired feet shuffle out into the apartment before her mind has a chance at second thoughts.

* * *

><p>He doesn't know why he's still awake, and probably what's bothering him the most is that he knows, in his subconscious, that he's staying awake waiting for her. He doesn't know why; since he's well and rightfully pissed off at her, and he'd much rather just ignore the realization than acknowledge it.<p>

The tap that has run in the bathroom for the past twenty minutes or so has caused the pipes in his wall to creak and groan as water barrels through them. How appropriate, he scoffs, that the problem that started this whole disaster would follow them everywhere.

Still turned with his back to the bathroom door, his glance slips down to the foot of the bed where Eli's crib rests. His son's delicate little bird-like rib cage rises and falls quickly, tiny baby breaths puffing from his lips. His lips are puckered along with his brow, a sign that he's in a deep, deep sleep. Although the sight of his son calms his temper a little, Elliot's mind is still rattled at her unbelievable comments, and now at the amount of time she's spending avoiding him – or whatever the hell she's doing in there.

He really wishes she's fucking hurry up with whatever lady-duties she's performing in there. He knows, of course, form his generous experience with three teenaged girls, that a woman's pre-sleep routine is long and meticulous and should really be made into some sort of cookbook recipe for all the instructions and particular steps it holds. But really, he reasons, twenty minutes is just ridiculous. There are only so many skin products and creams and moisturizers she can coat herself with, and it isn't like he's got any of those high-tech electrical outlets in his crappy-ass bathroom, so she can't possibly be straightening her hair or whatever it is women do before bed. He's never quite understood the female obsession with applying perfume and cream and fixing hair before bed. Quite ridiculous, actually. Who's there to impress?

He scoffs. Why can't she just face that his feelings are hurt? It's four in the morning, for crying out loud, why can't she just get into bed and – oh.

_Oh_.

The bed. Jesus fucking Christ, the bed. There is only one. He is absolutely frozen against the mattress. A statue under the covers as awareness suddenly settles over him like a harsh gust of wind.

He has little time to recover from the blow, much less come up with a convenient solution to the problem, for just as his breathing accelerates, he hears the tap turn off in the bathroom, followed by the abrupt silence of the fan being flicked off. In a panic he tries to reach over the side of the bed, gunning for his t-shirt, but before he can close his fingers around the material, the door is opened tentitavely, with a quiet click, and he can feel her walk out into the bedroom. He doesn't even have time to roll back over and make room.

In his state of absolute shock, all he can do is lie as still as he can, pretending to be asleep.

* * *

><p>Olivia stands by the side of the bed, just breathing for a moment – a moment in which she wills her heart beat to slow the hell down. She can literally feel it at the base of her throat, pumping hard and uncomfortably.<p>

Carefully, making sure not to disturb any of the blankets touching Elliot, Olivia peels back the corner of the comforter and slips onto the very edge of the mattress, without disturbing any of the material around her.

She tries her hardest to lie perfectly still, but the more she becomes aware of her feat of not moving, the harder it is to actually stay still. She becomes conscious of the itch that's pinching on her lower calf, of the ache behind her knee just begging to be stretched out. The sheets feel nice and cool against her bare legs, and the pillow is soft against her head. Despite the fact that she was moments away from falling asleep a few moments ago, she is now wide-awake, aware of everything, lying on the very edge of his mattress.

Minutes pass, and she doesn't move. Neither does he. Her body is tense and she can't relax, every muscle primed with the challenge of staying absolutely, perfectly still.

Suddenly – and it startles her – Elliot sighs loudly from his position a good gap of mattress away from her. "You just gonna do that all night?" He asks, his voice gravely. "I swear if you keep this up I'll never sleep."

She's going to die. Please, let lightening strike her right now. "W-what?" She replies, her voice tight.

"You're about to fall off the bed," he points out, his back still to her. His bare back. His corded, thick, muscular back that is a wide expanse of skin.

"No I'm not," she retorts defensively, feeling the edge of the mattress that is, truthfully, only about an inch away from her.

He sighs heavily, and moves over a bit on the mattress. "Whatever."

She frowns into the darkness. "Fuck you, Elliot. You're the one who's pissy and I didn't even do anything."

She feels him tense beside her. Like a little boy, he grabs his pillow roughly and bunches it up before slamming his head down onto it. "Go to sleep, Olivia. Just…" he makes a sound of frustration, and a sharp gesture with his hand.

Oddly, the sudden outburst from his has relaxed her. She feels less inclined to give him enough room, to stay on her side, to not be a bother. She is, strangely enough, more inclined to piss him off even more – something they've always taken a sadistic pleasure in doing.

Really, it gives her thrills to wind him up.

With a slight smirk tugging guiltily at the corners of her lips, she slips herself further onto the bed. The covers rustle and twist around her hips a bit as she pushes her body closer to the centre of the mattress.

She stops short when she feels his coarse leg hair tickling against the smoothness of her shin. Elliot tugs his leg away immediately, like he's been burned, and shifts further away on the mattress.

"S'rry," he mutters quietly, and her leg is tingling where she touched him.

She gulps as heat sifts through her body as she become conscious of his body rising and falling beside her with each breath, his shoulder pushing into her back repeatedly. She turns onto her side, her heart beating hard once more.

She closes her eyes; trying to ignore the fact that it's the most comfortable she's been in years.

* * *

><p>What feels like a long, long time later, she is abruptly pulled form the recesses of a deep, fulfilling sleep. Irritated at her brain's propensity to stay on cop-mode when she's, for once, allowed to sleep, she tries to roll over onto her back.<p>

She freezes, absolutely still as she is prevented from moving by Elliot, warm and big and very, very close, his stomach pressed tightly to her back.

And his extremely obvious erection poking insistently against her ass.

* * *

><p><strong>*Runs*<strong>


End file.
